I ended up sleeping most of the following day. If it hadn't been for my aching stomach and bladder, I probably would have slept until the early morning following. Each dream that haunted caused me to raise out of bed with a start, sometimes hot and sweaty and other times cold and shivery. It reminded me of the body temperature changes of detoxification. Megan had gotten me to try that once, right before the beginning of my last book tour. It hadn't been pretty and neither was this particular waking moment. I felt a craving for whiskey, a craving for Lily and an incessant need to use the bathroom. Walk into that bathroom and stand. I glanced with sleepy and angry eyes at the wheelchair and dragged myself into it, annoyed.

I wheeled myself into the bathroom and using the towel rack for leverage, plopped my groggy ass down on the porcelain and sighed. My bladder thanked me accordingly and my guts rumbled with defiance before following suit. My mouth became drier as I sat and my head throbbed.

"Food," I muttered to myself as I finished and washed up.

It was already beginning to show signs of sundown through the blinds of the living area, casting an orange and pink shadowed hue into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and rummaged around before settling on a glass of OJ and making myself a ham and Swiss sandwich. It was a hasty lunch and I didn't even bother with a plate. I maneuvered up to the Olivetti and set the glass to the right of the typewriter. I closed my eyes and chewed desperately. I was starved on many levels and the most pressing one didn't require chewing. I pondered if it might require something stronger than orange juice or at least some tincture mixed with it. My hand nodded its knowing tremor in response.

Instead of caving in to a drink, I wiped the crumbs from my lap and began to type. That would ease the trembling for a time or at least I hoped that it would. My mind was still focused on the nightmares from earlier and instead of pondering how these visions were different than my other dreams of Megan, I had decided to use them to fuel a horrific scene for the protagonist in my novel. In this version, though, there would be no waking need to urinate to stop it. I laughed to myself, noting the glee and maniacal tone, as I danced with Blue Mina for the first time in what seemed like months. It didn't take long for me to remember the dance well and the hours drifted away as the words spilled out effortlessly.

I had finished the night's writing and had started proofreading when my cell phone rang. I glanced from my manuscripts and towards the phone.

Unknown Caller.

I shook my head. No matter how hard one tried to stay off grid, just owning one of the damned devices insured solicitors and scam artists would find you. Even in the swampy nowhere outside of New Orleans, the incessant call of the con artists rang true. If it wasn't the charlatans on the streets or in the shops, it was the anonymous foreigners just dying for a bit of personal information. I let the ring end and started reading over the pages once more.

The phone rang again moments later. Once again, an unidentified number. I reached for it and glared at the touch screen quizzically. Persistent little fucks. I took a sip from my second glass of juice and contemplated answering it aloud, for my own amusement.

"Hello, you've reached renowned author of the macabre Byron King. If you continue to call, I will find you and show you exactly how twisted this mind of mine really can be. I'm sure no one will miss you and the world will be shy one annoying and greedy prick. Don't worry, I will take great care to mark your gravestone with your anonymity in case anyone would miss you. Here lies Unknown Caller. Interrupted a famous scrawler. His fate was met with quite the holler. Pulled from the waters by a passing trawler."

I laughed and began to proofread some more. Unknown caller didn't seem to take the sarcastic hint and rang again. This time I picked up out of frustration.

"What the hell do you want?" I asked, my tone indignant and annoyed.

Static met my ears followed by a string of odd beeping noises. The screech started as a low growling sound before drowning out the beeps, soon replaced with heavy breathing. There was a distance in the sound, like a frequency lost on a radio as you drove further away from the signal. It was the fading whine one hears just before everything becomes static. There was a voice on the line although I couldn't make out any words. My overactive imagination, for a split moment, thought that the breathing was more of the gasping variety. The kind that one makes in the throes of passion intermingled with similar sobs of anguish, alternating with feverish intensity. I held one hand to my ear to help decipher the voice on the other end. It seemed to be a woman's voice eerily familiar to me. This I could discern, despite the pollution of noise trying to mask it.

"Hello?" I cried over the noise in curious frustration. "I can barely hear you."

The noise decreased in volume and the heavy breathing slurred in response. The hairs on my neck raised slightly and the tiny ones in my hear tingled as I pressed the phone harder to the side of my head. The feeling was like a slight electrical charge in my brain, the phone becoming warmer in my hand, almost as if someone breathing into my ear.

"Byron," the caller whispered. "Byron, can you-"

"Barely. Who is this?"

There was a loud and crashing clap on the other end, lightning in the distance. Perhaps it was a slamming door or the backhand of a ruthless parent to a spoiled child. It was all of these in my mind equally and yet, something less tangible altogether. This was followed by a wailing, a sob as loud as the whine of an ambulance before the static rose again, the sound of laughter within earshot soon after. My pulse had become a conspiring thud in my ears, rising in tempo with each aural cacophony.

I wanted to hang up but instead held the phone in one hand and maneuvered my wheelchair frantically around the room, searching for a better reception. Deep down in my gut I knew that the effort would be futile. I tried anyway, desperate and mesmerized by the strange call. The static waned for another moment and a soft voice spoke my name again.

"Byron. I'm sorry." The hollow voice trailed away on the last syllable as I made my way into the hallway, just outside of the bedroom door.

"Megan?" My voice was small, catching in my throat at the possibility. It seemed highly improbable but after all the nightmarish visions of her lately, I couldn't help myself. "Please. Give me a name. A sign."

My hands were trembling and my chest tight, straining to hear above all the fading static and noise. The voice then screamed in anguish, a low sobbing screech that nearly made me drop the cell phone. I pulled it away from my head and stared into the blacked out touch screen. It flickered back to life dimly, showing the number and length of call. According to the display, it had been a number I did not recognize at all. That bit of information didn't surprise me. I had expected that.

What I did find surprising was the fact that this number had called multiple times before today, even when I had been in my coma. Constantly while I had been unconscious and hospitalized, in fact. The length of this phone call in particular startled me. According to the phone, our conversation had lasted all of three seconds. Shaking my head in disbelief, I slid my index finger across the screen and decided to save the number. I felt compelled to call it back and keep trying until I could get through, maybe get a cleaner reception eventually.

I clicked Save Phone Number. The dialogue box popped up for confirmation. I tapped Yes, waiting for the contact list to pop up for editing. I toyed with the idea of whose name to put there and decided to leave it as it was. Unknown. I pressed the screen again. It froze.

"Goddamn it," I muttered aloud, just as it reset itself after a moment. Upon booting back up, I thumbed my way back into my contact list and scrolled down to U in the directory. I hadn't been sure it had saved and a quick glance confirmed that. Backing out of the menu, I pulled up my call history to try again.

My entire phone history was gone. The incoming and outgoing call log had been cleared. My heart thudded achingly in my chest as I scrolled to the Missed Calls. That was empty as well. Frantically, I began to peruse my full contact list. Not a single number remained, save my own cell phone number.

I panicked for a moment. I collected my thoughts and reassessed the irony of the whole situation. I laughed aloud and drummed my fingers along the armrest of the wheelchair nervously. I thought about the hidden bottle of whiskey in the closet. My emergency stash. I glanced towards the mahogany door and smiled. I dropped the phone into my lap and reassured myself that I would go online in the morning and pull up my phone history from the website. I wondered if by some cruel twist of fate, that would prove futile as well. I laughed again, my mind reeling with the silliness of it all but frightened by the possibility as well. This laugh made my ribs hurt and each breath expelling in time with my aching head.

I stopped laughing only a few minutes later, when a knock at the door startled me back into focus. The fact that I knew Lily awaited me on the other side delighted me. I ached for her. If I was going to lose my mind then I would rather not lose it alone. I made my way to the front door and her perfumed scent teased and taunted as I reached for the doorknob.

I may not have understood her completely, maybe not even at all. I desired her touch, her mouth on me. Her fingers trailing along my skin. Devilish temptresses do make good company and some smell better when they are near, dead or not. I had already spent most of the previous night dreaming with a corpse in my head. On the other side of the door was a woman who would not rot and wither away in my arms.

At least, that was what I hoped. There was the chance that I might waste away in hers, though. Why I did not find that daunting did not occur to me until days later.

I opened the door slowly. The hinges creaked as I invited her in. The hinges in my mind made a similar noise when she leaned down and kissed me. Stubborn minds and locked doors are so easily opened, with the right approach.